It is Good

13 Aug

We will not let hate win


It is good.
It is good to see and to be seen.
It is good to hold and to be held.
It is good, this heart like a low long river
washing the soul clean to its raw lining
like the side of quivering fish.
It is good to feel the promise in cleanness,
in the sting of what was.
In every broken bit there is one conscious atom
beginning to pull toward the mending line.
It is good to cry, to wet the shoulder, the hand, the sleeve,
let it travel out to salt sea
where the elephantine roll of the darkdeep unknown
will toss it’s misted curl to the sky
and dissolve itself into stillness.
It is behind your eyes, this close fearlove
I kiss your cheek.
You kiss mine.
Both are wet with ocean.
And it is good.

This is for Anyone who has Ever Lost Someone

10 Aug

This is for anyone who has ever lost someone:

You do not own the leaving.
You share loss
because you are loved.
spreads it’s watery wake
like a quilt over a coffin.
Too little comfort over a container
of what
needs answering before it’s buried
to dissolve.
It’s not that people really tire
of your long grief,
a slow low dissonant hum of unraveling.
It’s that the fraying of this patchworked shroud between us
reveals edges of other coffins,
slowly decaying in the corners
of their own heart’s attic.
They’d rather not see.
They’d rather not feel.
You do not have to get over it.
Only wait for there to be
nothing left but holy dust
on the shrine of your soul.
One day a gentle wind
will shift ever softly
and be enough.

On This Day: Facebook

10 Jul

I wonder.
Eventually, does one carve
the jade of the heart
into something beautiful?
Or is there some alchemy,
some elixir
that lifts
layer by layer
the stony cast of streaked green
revealing some pale promise of flesh
willing to flex


5 Jul

Awake at 6:20. WTF.
Ramble highlights of imaginary lives
via Facebook for an hour.
At least it lives up to its name.
Gratitude #1.

Write existential crisis poem.
Attempt to communicate via social media.
Realize dog must pee.
Realize no one wants to hear.
They just want to be seen.
Ditto.                                    Anyway.

Avoid stepping on the heel of guilt.
Think: Anything can happen today.
Gratitude #2?
Contemplate: Anything.

Breathe through the motion to cry.
Muster the energy of Gratitude #3:
I can flip back a comforter.

8:46. Exit bed.
coffee sweetened with cynicism.
Still bitter.

On Gratitude. On Faith. On Love.

10 May

Recently, I have been musing about the meaning of faith and the seeds of its growth: gratitude and love. This first public v-log has me wandering through how the writing of this blog and the journey it contains has given me an amazing gift. It’s a bit slow and reflective and I am not promising any entertaining value. But in the telling of it, I discuss treasure surprisingly discovered without a map. I don’t know if I will ever offer one of these again in the future; its personal. But this once felt right.

Be Well.


20 Apr

“All you need is Jesus. He will fulfill all your needs, honey;  don’t you know that?”

“Love yourself completely. No one can love you unless you love yourself first.”

“When you give up the desire, it comes.”

“Accept what is and you will achieve peace.”

“Surrender, and then God will take care of the rest.”

“Love is Universal. There is no difference between types of love. It comes from everyone.”

“Accept people for who they are. Love their imperfections. Be the bigger person and love them no matter how they treat you.”

“You are only alone because you want to be. Nobody gets what they want.”

“They are men. Seriously, grow up.”

“When you aren’t looking, then the right person arrives. Stop Looking. ”

“If you build it, they will come.”

“Maybe be a little less confident. You know, men have fragile egos.”

“When you fix your thoughts, then the world changes. If you look at this negatively then it will be. Try to see the gift.”

“Everything is a lesson. What are you learning?”

“Be grateful. You could be in Syria.”

“All you need is yourself, babe.”

“Each day is an opportunity to start again. Don’t worry. It’s NEVER too late!”

“The only person holding you back is you. If you’d stop seeing the negative then you’d be happy.”

“If you move yourself into a place that feels the way you want to feel, then it doesn’t matter if what you want arrives.”

“Just join a ladies group. You’ll make good girl friends.”

“Suffering is pain times resistance. Make friends with the pain. Be with it. Stop resisting. Look at its texture and then your thinking about it will change. “

. . .said everyone (renunciate or householder)

already beloved of a calling,

of children,

of friends and family

of one other, above the rest.

Sharing the anchor of hands

within the deep fathomed current,

they toss toward me a wrinkled lifering of advice

about the dry dustshadow space in my heart,

an anomalous magnetic pull

bending its own needle toward a something nothingness.

This is the place where you should be

the one I want beside me,

our soul’s wisdom heaped like seed in a sack,

of hope to sow the world.

I’m not looking for completion.

I’m hungry for evolving into more,

swinging free of the pull of this black hole.


I never saw a starving man bow to bless

a dry plate upon which he must blame himself

for there being no bread.

No bread.

No fault.

That’s what Is.

Mercy is not found in gravity.

The Blue Rose Apron

19 Apr


When she smiles,

suddenly, I am a child

circling the Sunday dinner table

taking orders for dessert.

“With or without ice cream, sir?” I ask Grandpa,

penciling lines I imagine

a waitress might write.

Soon, she serves crystal cut bowls full of cobbler

like blackberries kissed by diamonds,

steaming and syrupy sweet,

cool white rivers of melting cream

mixing purple then blue

like the roses on her apron

as she bend around to hand me a spoon.


I notice her hands,

worn smooth as a lucky coin

while she fries chicken in a big black skillet.

Sizzling clouds of pepper and fat

mix with the back door breeze

billowing her blue rose apron.

I’m fifteen.

I cross the kitchen,

not too cool to sit on a corner stool,

the last one Grandpa made,

but my knees rise high

like a cricket held too close for comfort.

And suddenly,

I am tall.

Suddenly, she is ever so



She plays the upright Richmond piano,

my teething marks still on the bench,

And in each line

of heartbreak and Patsy Cline

I feel so crazy.

I am so lonely.

Into the pocket of her blue rose apron,

I reach for tissues layered with Windsong,

her low alto inside the ringing tones

against the storm of tears

from this heart, so far from home.

She knows this type of leaving,

this type of loving,

too sweet, too beautiful

to hold for long.


Time suspends me at seven

upon entering the lilac coolness of her room.

I lie across her bed,

my feet on muslin pillows spotted yellow and blue,

my face to the open window’s summer breeze,

lined with tears and truth.

On its hook in the closet,

a blue rose apron rests among clothes

too dear now for anyone else’s wearing.


The pause between bees wings and a bluebird’s echoing call

is the silence where you hear her,

her spirit, her smile,

now light,

now air.



Ollie Ruth Mullins Beard

12-09-1920  — 4-13-2017


4 Apr


I am sore

in a thousand different ways,

said the uncurling rope

in contemplation of its knots.


Cosmic Cup

31 Mar



there was a way

to empty all the words

right down to the curve of the heart’s cup,

a way to let them pour without spotting,

without the fear of stain

on the ironed cloth of present being.

Cups are supposed to hold in curved kindness,

despite crazing of human heat,

despite bits of golden rim dissolving into the drink.

Nevertheless, purpose serves.

To empty and refill from a darkened kettle

steeping stars and nothingness,

a limber liquid

offering all, over and again.

Love and eternity

in each dark sip.

To Oz, R.S.V.P.

26 Mar

I used to have adventures.
And I will again.
But Aunt Em is gone now and the house needs resurrection.
Somehow the wonder of new places is tinted a bit blue.
Toto #2 prefers the back porch,
and the witch, she’s long melted 
My friends have all found their missing parts.
They write often.
In answering your question, yes.
I know the direction.
Although I can’t see the rainbow from here,
I still know it’s there.
The bluebirds are building in the bush out back,
their wings folded round things to come.
Expectancy is the very air.
And while I’m grateful for the invite,
and it tugs this wanderer’s soul,
I’m hoping,
if I stay in one place and make ready,
Adventure might come over.
Who wouldn’t want to find the rainbow ends
right where it begins,
in her own backyard?

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